The Case of the Hands-On Lawyer
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Because Perry always seemed to have a thing for Della's hands.


_I know. I have another story to finish. But in the small amount of time I've had to write lately, it's been giving me a fit; and I don't want to let it go until it feels just right. So I typed out this little bite-sized one-shot that's been bouncing around my head to help me get my writer's groove back. I hope you like it._

* * *

It was a long, weary sigh that escaped Della Street's lips, right from the core of her exhausted being, as she ratcheted another sheet of paper into her typewriter.

She was used to it by now - these late nights full of harrowing clue hunts and hurriedly processed legal documents and midnight suppers that made up for the lack of food during the day. But eventually, her body would start to plead with her and her mind would murmur sweet imaginings of her cozy, cushiony bed.

It was all worth it though. Every sleepless night and missed mealtime. Her stomach grumbled eloquently. Alright, maybe not the missed meals. Still, it was all secondary to their mission to see justice served rightly.

Sometimes, her motivation waned. Not that she would ever admit it. The sacrifice was easier on those cases when she and Perry worked together in close quarters like the well-oiled machine they truly were. Other times, their paths diverged, but they'd synchronize their watches so they could meet up later and compare notes and decide what happened next. These were bleary-eyed, adrenaline-infused times when boundaries blurred and comfort was to be had in the holding of hands and the leaning of heads on shoulders and, on rare occasions, a kiss that went to a tantalizing point just beyond chaste.

During the daylight, they never addressed the things that happened in the off-hours, never discussed the lingering significance of those physical signs of affection. Yet, they left their imprint just the same, making the relationship between Della Street and Perry Mason stronger. Merging the professional and personal aspects of their partnership until, little by little, it became everything in one.

So normally, it didn't bother Della that Perry's eye wandered a bit. She was certain it was just his eye, after all. Some of the female clients who came to them were young and frightened and determined to use anything at all in their arsenals, including their looks. Perry knew that. He might admire the legginess afforded by a high hem, the shapeliness of a cinched waist, the come-hitherness of long, batted eyelashes, or the teasing reveal of an almost-immodest neckline; but usually she could roll her eyes at him, eliciting a grin that told her he was well aware of his clients' ability to wield their feminine wiles.

No, normally it didn't bother her. Other times, she suspected his immunity was not what he thought it was, that his judgement became clouded. And when she was too tired, some sneaky, green emotion inside her whispered things to confuse her, to make her ask herself whether it really was all worthwhile.

Who were they to each other at the end of the day? They'd professed no serious commitment to one another. And wasn't their work bigger and more meaningful than some covert flirtations? That's what they were, weren't they? Flirtations?

The thought that she might be right in her assessment dulled her spirit and made her heart heavy.

Della closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Perry had been out of the office most of the day and well into the evening, leaving her with the task of answering as much mail as she could without him - sur _prise_ , _sur_ prise - and practically chained to her typewriter. Now he needed one more thing, a writ of _habeas corpus_ for the chin-quivering, doe-eyed blonde who had sashayed into their office earlier this morning.

Just when the last client had convinced her Perry was a leg man, this one came in with her mascara expertly applied and suspiciously unsmudged despite her attempt at sobbing. Maybe he was a sucker for eyes.

Then again, all that faux weeping came with a great deal of heaving bosom. Maybe that was what did it.

Maybe she needed to stop speculating and get back to work. It would be nice to be in bed before midnight.

She rolled her neck from side to side and flexed her fingers, like a pianist about to give a concert. Then she started typing, the lateness of the hour slowing her down a bit to give way to more cautious finger placement. She actually liked typing, when it wasn't the only thing she had to do, and years of attaining proficiency had made her fingers strong and nimble. She probably exerted a little more force than necessary with this last task of the evening, pounding out her frustrations and doubts, and she didn't hear the door to Mason's office click open and shut.

She sensed him long before looking at him, taking her time as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe in between their offices. She couldn't see that his hands were shoved into his pockets, that his ankles were crossed, but she knew him by now. His coat was probably still on, his hat tilted back at a rakish angle, although it couldn't detract from the tired lines on his face. And he was tired, she knew. He was being too quiet, too absorbed as he watched her.

Finally, she was done. She pulled the paper out with a flourish and pushed the typewriter back from the edge of her desk, leaving space for him to sign the document. When she looked up, he was exactly as she had expected him to be.

Except there was something different in his eyes. An intensity of emotion that made her breath hitch. She had anticipated gratitude, maybe even admiration - he was always fascinated at how fast her fingers flew over the keys - but this was something different. She was an expert reader of people, specializing in Perry Mason, yet this was beyond her, and she found it unsettling.

He walked toward her. She scooted her chair back to make room for him, and held out a pen. But when he reached her, he sat against the desk, facing her. He took the pen and gently laid it beside him. He leaned forward and gathered her hands in his.

For a long moment, he stared at their hands, the place where their bodies connected. Then he carefully released one of her hands. With his thumbs, he started massaging the palm of her hand, near her wrist. He took his time, working out toward each fingertip, before extending past her hand to her elbow. He grasped her arm firmly and slowly kneaded his way back to her hand in long, overlapping strokes. When he arrived at her fingers again, he lifted them to his lips and kissed each one. Finished with that hand, he picked up her other and commenced to give it the same careful attention.

He didn't say a word. He didn't look her in the eyes. His focus was entirely on the objects of his work, which he was taking very seriously. She relaxed more and more until she thought she might cry - so tender were his ministrations, so kind was this spontaneous act.

He finished this hand the same way he had the other, with a kiss landing softly on each fingertip. But he didn't let go. Instead, he laced his fingers through hers and looked at her properly.

She smiled, feeling self-conscious about the flood of emotion that had been triggered by the impromptu massage. He studied her with the same strangely unreadable expression.

"It always amazes me," he said in a low, husky voice that seemed to catch on his words, "to find you here. That you wait for me."

She laughed, but though it was a light sound, it betrayed her awkwardness. "I don't know why. I did answer when you called me here."

He shook his head. "It is no less amazing to me that you're here at 9:00 at night than when you're here at 9:00 in the morning. There isn't enough money in the world to pay you what you deserve."

"Maybe if you stopped taking all these charity cases…"

There was a ghost of a smile then, but his eyes remained dark. "Why do you do it?"

"I have a job to do, an important one; so I do it." She attempted a nonchalant shrug.

He considered her answer, the one he'd heard and the one she'd left unspoken in a layer underneath it. He started to say one thing, but decided on another.

"Are you hungry?"

"Famished," she admitted.

This time, he grinned widely. "I owe you dinner. Let's deliver this -" He jerked his head backward in the general direction of the legal document "- and find some place quiet to have a bite."

"Alright."

They went about tying up loose ends in silence. He held the door open for her while she switched off the lights, and they were on their way to the elevator, purposeful footsteps echoing through the deserted corridor.

As they waited for the elevator to meet them, Mason took Della's hand and squeezed, tugged her closer into his side.

"You know," he said softly in her ear, "I love your hands."

"My hands, eh?" she replied, getting the answer to one of the questions she would never tell him she'd had.

"Well," he drawled, eyes twinkling while they swept her figure. "Not _just_ your hands."

She leaned into him, giving him a playful shove; and he laughed.

There were so many things about him that appealed to her, but Lord, his laugh...

 _The End_

 _And now I'm off to do chores, but I promise I will be back to finish what I've started. Thanks so much for reading along!_


End file.
